


Autoeponym

by Archaeopter-ace (QuarticMoose)



Series: Don't Listen to Kafka [1]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: 'this needs more appointment booking and realistic wait times?', Barbara POV, Changeling!Jim, Gen, Half-Changeling!Jim, I wouldn't know since I don't watch medical dramas, Mother-Son Relationship, NO needles depicted, No Gore, Oh almost forgot, YACAU, but I assume a lot of people feel this way ;P, mild body horror, past emotional/psychological abuse (mentioned), those are very relevant tags, you ever look at a medical drama and go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuarticMoose/pseuds/Archaeopter-ace
Summary: au·to·ep·o·nymnoun:a medical condition named in honor of an individual who has either been affected by the disease or has died from it.Yet Another Changeling AU (can YACAU become a thing? Let’s make it a thing), this time from Barbara's POV, asking the question ‘what does the onset of Jim Lake Disease look like to a trained medical professional?’





	1. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep the medical jargon as accurate as possible, though I've almost certainly taken liberties when it comes to procedural matters, i.e. what should be done when. And Barbara would probably know a lot of abbreviations and slang, which I'm forgoing for the sake of readability (and also that sort of thing is hard to research). 
> 
> Unless people request otherwise, I don't plan on including a glossary of all the terms used in end notes - it will either be (hopefully) clear from context, or else be unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
> 
> Except Chapter 2, I will definitely post a list of -ists for that chapter, wouldn't want to get phlebotomist and phrenologist mixed up.

 

 

It began when Barbara came home from work to the smell of mushrooms and thyme – and a bouquet of other aromas she couldn’t place, she lacked the skill – coming from the kitchen, after a tiring day spent mitigating the complications from an unusually difficult appendectomy.  
  


(Later, she would learn it actually began considerably earlier: 2 months, or 16 years, or 1,143 years, depending on how you wanted to measure it. But for her, it began on a drizzly Wednesday night.)  
  


Jim stepped out to greet her, and he was pouting strangely when he welcomed her home and informed her they were having chicken fricassee for dinner. His lower lip protruded, but the rest of his expression remain relaxed and not the least bit sulky. A fat lip? It didn’t look swollen…  
  


“Jim, honey, do you have a toothache?”  
  


“What?”  
  


“You’re holding your mouth funny.”  
  


Startled, he reached up and felt along his jaw. “I am? I hadn’t noticed.”  
  


Well, that was concerning. “Here, let me check.”  
  


He stood obediently still as she used both hands to gently feel along his jaw. She frowned when she felt no swelling, could pinpoint nothing amiss. She had him open and close his mouth several times, feeling the muscles and tendons move underneath her probing fingertips; although his sudden underbite was alarmingly prominent, she could find nothing distended or out of place with the mandibular joint. She checked his lymph glands and his gums, just to be thorough, but… nothing.  
  


“And you’re sure you feel fine?” she asked again. “No soreness at all?”  
  


Holding his head in her hands the way she was, she could see the way his eyes flickered, felt a stutter in his breathing as he began to pick up on her own worry.  
  


But then he shrugged, and stepped out of her gentle hold. “None, I feel fine. I’m still not sure what you mean by weird? It’s probably nothing… or maybe it will go away on its own.”  
  


She stared down at him. Then she took a deep breath to steady her nerves, because she didn’t want to alarm him. “Jim, sweetie, I think we need to get you booked for x-rays. And I think you’ll see for yourself why I’m… concerned, if you'd take a look for yourself.”  
  


“Sounds ominous,” he joked weakly, his crooked smile only serving to highlight his misaligned teeth rather than alleviate the growing tension.  
  


The beeping of the oven timer spared her from having to come up with a response, as Jim all too gladly seized upon the distraction and dashed back to the kitchen to turn the stove off. Everything was a flurry of movement, then, getting the table set and serving themselves from the large cookpot.  
  


The food was delicious; the conversation was stilted. At least, it was at the start, when Jim pushed aggressively for normalcy and latched onto topics neither of them had any genuine interest in (the weather. the ongoing construction on Clement Street. what her schedule would look like next week)  – short dialogues that quickly petered out when neither had anything more to contribute.  
  


Eventually, they got some conversational traction when she asked how Toby was doing, which somehow lead to a discussion of the latest casting decisions for the next GunRobot movie, and things started to actually feel normal. Which was itself surreal. She felt as though a rug had been pulled out from underneath her feet, and she’d barely managed to keep her balance. But Jim needed her to be strong. Jim needed her to be the doctor who knew the answers and who would make everything be alright. So she could – _would_ – make it through this dinner without staring constantly at his mouth.  
  


And she even thought she would have succeeded in this goal, if it weren't for the fact that the strangest thing of all was how little trouble Jim seemed to be having chewing. She would have expected him to need to cut the food into small, swallowable pieces, or else to struggle with teeth whose relative positions had flip-flopped. Instead, his incisors had no difficulty shearing off pieces of food to masticate with molars similarly unencumbered.  
  


Jim almost certainly noticed her attention, but he was too polite to say anything, until finally they were both finished eating, and he pushed back from the table. “I uh, I gotta say, I'm _really_ curious what's up with my mouth.” He rubbed one hand along his jaw. She wondered how his hand could fail to register something out of place. “But from the way you were staring, I'm starting to feel the anxiety – just a little bit!” he hastened to reassure her, looking a bit panicked at the thought that he'd implicated Barbara in giving him anxiety.  
  


“Do you want me to come with you?”  
  


“what? No, god no. I don't need you to – I can go look in _a mirror_ by myself, it's not… ugh.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Thanks, but I'll be fine.”  
  


“I'll clear the dishes, then, and if you change your mind…”  
  


He waved a hand in acknowledgement as he turned and headed up the stairs. Barbara got started cleaning up from dinner, working as quietly as she could and keeping her ears peeled. Several long, silent moments passed, and just as she was putting the last glass into the dishwasher, she heard a thump from upstairs.  
  


In an instant, she found herself at the foot of the stairs. “Jim, honey, you alright?” she called out, debating whether Jim would find it smothering if she went up after him. Just as she decided she would at least go up and wait outside the door, Jim came out of the bathroom and looked down at her, frozen on the bottom step with one hand on the banister.  
  


He was looking a little wild-eyed and spoke in a small voice. “um, yeah, x-rays sound good.”  
  


She held his gaze for a long moment, trying to convey as much love and support as she could. “I’ll make some calls.”  
  


* * *

 

Barbara took a moment to collect herself before she knocked on Jim’s door, carefully leveling out her expression until her calm, collected, best bedside-manner face was firmly in place, with none of the roiling emotions she was experiencing visible. (Jim might recognize her mask for what it was and resent her choice, but it was still better than the alternative.) Two sharp taps on the door, and at Jim’s acknowledgement she walked in. Her son was in the process of sitting up, having clearly been lying prone on the bed a moment earlier.  
  


“I had to pull some strings, but I was able to get you an appointment with Dr. Jansson tomorrow, she’s an excellent radiologist.”  
  


“Mmhmm,” he hummed noncommittally. She walked forward to sit down next to him on the bed, and he swung his legs over the side to make room. “I talked to Toby. He has more experience with teeth problems than I do.”  
  


“Did he have any advice?”  
  


“Not particularly. Just, like, follow whatever instructions I am given to the letter. And he gave me the number to his orthodontist.”  
  


“Sounds like he’s got your back. And you know I do as well; whatever this is, we’ll figure it out, together.”  
  


“I know, Mom. I know.”  
  


She wrapped one arm around him, deep in her own thoughts. Whatever was going on with Jim, it wasn't causing him physical distress. And it probably wasn't anything life-threatening, she told herself very, _very_ firmly. But what it _was_ , was Unknown, and unaccountably strange.  
  


She kissed him goodnight and retreated to her own room, where she lay awake for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the writing saddle after 2 years of not posting anything, Whoo!
> 
> In researching bone growth for this fic, I looked up replacement rates for various tissues, e.g. how long before every cell in our skin is replaced, how long to replace all our red blood cells, etc. And part of me wanted to use that timeline for Jim's transformation, like if he hit a point in his development where his body stops making human cells. All the living cells his body currently has still exist, but when they copy their DNA to divide, they copy a previously-dormant strand of troll DNA. So all new cells going forward would be troll cells.
> 
> His stomach lining would be replaced in a matter of days; all his red blood cells in ~5 months. Osteoblasts (bone cells) would take 10 years. Interesting food for thought, but ultimately not viable with the story I already had sketched out, so I disregarded the relative rates.


	2. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to avert the Omnidisciplinary Doctor trope _so hard_

Jim’s jaw did not look better in the morning as he had optimistically proposed, and the two of them were quite antsy by the time his appointment rolled around. Getting the x-rays themselves took relatively little time, but then the waiting began in earnest. The exam table paper crinkled loudly in the small, square examination room with every shift of Jim’s weight, a constant background white noise as his fidgeting reached near fever-pitch.  


“If it really is something brand new, will I get to have a disease named after me?” he joked, breaking the silence and clearly trying to make light of the situation.  


Barbara tried to play along, but her heart wasn't in it. “James Lake Junior Disease is quite the mouthful. Oh, I mean – ” she buried her face in her hands. “I did not mean to pun,” she moaned.  


To her relief, Jim choked out a laugh at her _faux pas_ , and soon they'd both broken down in slightly hysterical laughter, which was the moment that the radiologist returned. She blinked, but did not comment, and they quickly composed themselves.  


Dr. Jansson nodded to each of them in turn. “Jim, Barbara – the results are in… Honestly, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. You only just noticed yesterday?”

 

“That’s correct.” Barbara felt a brief, irrational stab of defensiveness – _she was an attentive, observant mother!_ – but pushed it aside.  


Dr. Jansson pulled the first sheet of x-ray film out of her folder and slid it into the illuminator. A human skull – Jim’s skull – appeared, a ghostly black-and-white specter of Things Unseen.  


“As you can see, there’s nothing out of alignment with the joint itself. The mandible base has just become elongated… somehow. Have you had a growth spurt recently?” Jim shook his head. “Well, maybe this is a sign that one is coming up, and the growth hormones in your system got misdirected… You'll want to find an endocrinologist for that. Maybe start with an orthopedist, first; I can give you a referral. Today, while you’re here, try to get a blood panel done, see if anything comes up.”  


She took another glance down at Jim's chart (a stalling tactic Barbara knew well). “I’ll level with you, it looks like surgery will be your only viable option to correct this, but before you even begin considering taking that step, we’ll want to understand what caused this to happen in the first place.”  


Dr. Jansson slid a second x-ray film next to the first, showing a head-on view. “I’m also a little worried about these blastic lesions in the lower jaw, underneath your lower left and right cuspids.” She tapped the cloudy white patches with her pen. “Most turn out to be benign, just bone islands, but coupled with the atypical growth in your jaw, I’m going to recommend an MRI, see if we can’t get to the bottom of this.”  


“Thank you, Angela, we’ll do that. Jim – Jim?”  


He turned away from where he’d been staring at his own x-rays. “Mm? Yes?”  


“Do you have any questions for Dr. Jansson?”  


He turned back to the screens, contemplating them in silence for a long time. “No. No questions.”  


The wait for an available MRI machine took two hours, and they were incredibly fortunate there was an opening the same day. Luckily claustrophobia had never been something Jim had an issue with; if anything, he’d constantly been squeezing into tight spaces when he was younger. She asked him if it was alright if she joined the technician behind the partition, and he said it was okay; the technician, for his part, made it extremely clear that Barbara was only welcome so long as she did not say _anything_ or otherwise interrupt his work.  


Operating an MRI machine wasn’t something she’d been trained in specifically, so she was content to leave it to the professional. After a long forty-five minutes (during which time Barbara had to bite back a comment at least twenty times), the scan was finally over and Jim was free to get off the table and change out of the hospital gown he'd been given.  


“It will take a bit of time to analyze the results. You might hear back by tomorrow at the very earliest, but it could also take quite a bit longer.”  


From his furrowed brow, and the way he kept glancing back at the display screen, Barbara guessed that the results were not going to be as illuminating as they’d hoped.  


* * *

 

“So, how was your first ever MRI?”  


“It was so _loud,”_ he complained, buckling his seat belt. Evening was well underway by the time they were able to leave the clinic. “Worse than the Furgo – um. Than ‘Fergolicious’ blasted out of a car stereo at highest volume.”  


“...That was weirdly specific.” For more than one reason. “I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions on electropop.” And ten-years-old electropop at that.  


“Eh heh. Well, you know – oh, look, they’ve fixed the sidewalk on Main.”  


She allowed him to drop the subject; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. “Will you be alright to go to school tomorrow? I could write you a note.”  


He groaned. “I already missed one day of school. I’m… well, maybe I’m not fine, we don’t know, but _whatever’s_ going on, it’s… not actually bothering me. I can handle school just fine.”  


“If you’re sure…”  


“I am.”

 

* * *

 

Long after Jim had finally gone to bed – (and she had walked past his door at ten thirty, to check that his light was off and that he was actually getting much-needed rest) – Barbara was still sitting at the dining room table, Jim's x-rays spread out in front of her. She worried the thin paper of a fortune cookie slip between her fingers, rolling and unrolling it over and over again (‘Rivers begin with springs’).  


Jim's appetite had been a bit off, that evening; he'd said the food looked unappealing (they're ordered takeout, since they’d gotten home so late, and certainly it wasn't up to his usual standards). Barbara had fretted that it was a new symptom, but he had assured her it was just the stressful day he'd had.  


She picked up one of the x-rays, held it up to the light. It just didn't make sense. Bones didn't just spontaneously grow willy-nilly. New bone material could only grow from very specific places, and the jaw was more complicated than most, since it had to grow in several directions at once while still maintaining its proper shape.  


The oblong white lesions below his canines did not look dissimilar to the round, still-rootless blobs behind his molars that would one day grow into wisdom teeth, though the lesions were much larger and more tapered. Curious, she made a quick count – Jim had three wisdom teeth in development, just like she had had. Hopefully his didn't cause the same amount of trouble when they came in…  


She put her head down on the table to muffle her sobbing, hysterical gasps, when she realized that with his expanded jaw, Jim's wisdom teeth would have more than enough room.  


Eventually, breathing restored, she managed sit back up and picked up the x-ray once more. She'd looked at hundreds, if not thousands, of x-ray films in her lifetime, but something about holding the image of her baby boy's skull shook something deep inside of her. This was Jim, this was her Jim.  


She couldn't stop staring at it.  


She traced his jaw with her eyes, a quiet part of her unable to stop cataloging the name of each bone, but she didn't give it much thought as she mapped the rest of his skull. _Mandible, maxilla, zygomatic, parietal_... She pulled the x-ray closer, her heart starting to hammer in her ribcage.  


There – near the top of his skull – another anomaly. Another white spot, a blastic lesion, just behind where his frontal and parietal lobes met. It was the size of a quarter, and she scrambled to pick up the film that would show the opposite hemisphere… and, yes, there was another identical spot on the other side of his skull. How could they have missed this?! Granted, they were preoccupied with his jaw, and the angle the x-rays were taken were less than ideal (a view looking down at the top of his skull would be most helpful), but _still._  


They weren't tumors. They didn't look like tumors, and besides, the placement was too even – one on either side of his skull, the same size and position? Ridiculous.  


_They weren't tumors._ That small comfort didn't give any insight into what they _could_ be. What could cause not one but _two_ sets of anomalous spots of bone to appear symmetrically on the human body? She couldn't think of anything.  


She needed to check on Jim. (She needed to let him sleep).  


She knew she would not get a wink of sleep herself until she'd had a closer look. (Could she do that without waking him?)(... Probably not. Especially not if she wanted useful verbal feedback)  


If she was too tired to function in the morning, Jim would blame himself for not taking better care of her, despite that not being his job. She should wake him up. It was only… – she glanced at her watch – 11:41. There'd be time for Jim to fall back asleep. And if need be, she could keep him home from school tomorrow. (She might do that regardless of how much sleep he got that night).  


Resolved to her course of action, she tapped lightly on his door. “Jim? Honey?” she called softly, not wanting to startle him awake. “Jim, I'm coming in now, okay?” she said a little louder.  


To her surprise, a light clicked on in his room. She pushed open the door, and there he was, awake and alert in bed, hair mussed from lying down and bags starting to form under his eyes, but he was neither groggy nor only half-awake.  


“...Were you even asleep?”  


“Were you?” he snarked back, before signing. “No, I just… I just don't feel sleepy. I'm exhausted but not sleepy; don't you hate it when that happens?”  


She pursed her lips. “Insomnia?”  


He rolled his eyes. “Geez, Mom, not everything is a symptom. But… maybe?” he finished miserably, pressing a pillow to his chest. “For whatever reason, the later it gets, the more awake I feel. I thought if I lay in the dark for long enough, I'd eventually bore myself to sleep.”  


“In my experience, all that that does is give your brain time to chase itself in circles. I could maybe make you some chamomile? Would that help?”  


“Yeah, that'd be nice. Um, leave the tea bag on the side, I'll steep it myself. But I highly doubt that's why you came in here…?”  


Barbara felt an icy hand clench around her heart as she was reminded of her purpose. She cleared her throat against the tightness there. “I noticed something on your x-rays. Can I examine your scalp?”  


“Heh. Thank you for not saying I need my head examined,” he joked.  


Barbara was not amused, affronted on behalf of the entire mental health profession, and gave him a stern look, because He Should Know Better. “I thought you liked Dr. Palmer. I know he really helped you a lot.” Jim had started compulsively picking at his skin not long after he turned thirteen. Cognitive/Behavioral Therapy had helped, as did finding the right meds. Jim had been managing his OCD a lot better since then, had learned better coping mechanisms, a whole mental toolbox, and had stopped seeing his therapist a little over a year ago.  


Jim flushed, abashed. “Sorry, sorry. You're right. I'm just nervous.”  


She brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You don't have to be. We're in this together, remember?”  


“Together,” he repeated.  


She angled his desk lamp so she could see the top of his head better, which he tipped forward in quiet compliance; she tamped down the strong feeling of _deja vu_ , and got to work. She began at his hairline and worked backwards, a modern-day phrenologist feeling out all the contours of his skull. She worked slowly and methodically –  


“Why'd you stop?”  


She looked down at her hands. She had not stopped.  


She had, however, reached where she thought one of the spots from the x-ray was.  


“Jim, honey, can you feel it when I do this?” She pinched the skin – unusually loose for a scalp – and observed it as it stood stiffly up, as though severely dehydrated. There was a long, weighty pause.  


“Feel it when you do what?” he asked in a small voice.  


She took a deep breath; she had a surgeon's hands, they never shook with nerves, but she waited until she was absolutely composed before she continued, drawing that clinical calmness around her like a shield.  


“So it seems like you have a little bit of sensation loss, here,” she explained, absolutely calm. “I'm going to see how far it extends, okay? Let me know when you can feel my fingers again.”  


“O-okay.”  


All in all, it appeared that the two spots were in fact perfectly circular, as far as she could tell. Moreover, they were a bit larger than she thought, closer to the size of half-dollars than quarters.  


She kissed the top of his head when she was done (carefully in a place she was sure he'd feel it) and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “All done. That want so bad, was it?” He raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I'll add a dermatologist to your list of appointments in the morning. Right now, I'm going to bring you that cup of tea, and you are going to get some sleep, mister.”  


“You should make some for yourself as well. Let the water cool down a bit before you add the tea bag, you want it below boiling, not actually boiling.”  


She smiled, a real, genuine smile, her first in what felt like ages; some things never changed.  


“Goodnight, Jim.”  


“Goodnight.”  


* * *

  
She brought him his hot water and tea bag of chamomile as promised, but for herself, she brewed caffeine-filled black tea; she had no interest in going to sleep quite yet. It wasn't even one o'clock, and her shift didn't start until eleven tomorrow. She had time.  


Somewhere in the basement was a box containing her old medical texts. She hadn’t kept _all_ her textbooks from med school (enough for a small library, it had felt like at the time), but she knew she had a couple of the better reference texts squirrel away, including a copy of Gray’s Anatomy.  


The steps creaked as she made her way down them; at that time of night, all the subtle grumbling noises the house always made seemed amplified. She blinked in surprise when she saw that Jim had rearranged a number of the boxes in the basement. Now how was she supposed to find the one she was looking for? Grumbling under her breath, she flicked on her flashlight and got to work reading the labels on the sides.  


Fortunately, the box she was looking for was relatively easy to access, and not at the bottom of a stack five boxes high. Honestly, that wall of boxes was so impractical, it divided up the basement and was just asking to fall over on somebody. She’d have to ask Jim to help her put them back the way they were. Shaking her head, a selection of textbooks in her arms, she ascended the stairs. What could Jim have been looking for that necessitated that many boxes to be moved around?  


Her tea was severely over steeped when she got back upstairs; she'd forgotten to take the tea bag out. Oh well. She popped it into the microwave to reheat it, and added a healthy dose of milk to try to counter-act the bitterness.

Then she cracked open the first of the text and got to work, notepaper and pencil ready nearby.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to name the radiologist Dr. Sendak, after Maurice Sendak, author of 'Where the Wild Things Are,' but apparently Sendak is a very recognizable name in the Voltron fandom, so I did not. Anybody want to take a guess where I got Jansson from? ;D
> 
> And now, a List of some -ists:  
> 
> 
> * radiologist - specialist in forming diagnoses through medical imaging
> * endocrinologist - doctors trained to diagnose and manage diseases that affect the glands and the hormones
> * orthopedist - doctor trained to treat problems with the skeleton, joints, and associated muscles and ligaments. Not just for back problems! 
> * dermatologist - doctor of the skin, treats skin conditions
> * the phlebotomist mentioned in the notes last chapter is not mentioned by name here after all (one too many -ists), but they'd be the one responsible for drawing blood
> * phrenology was the 19th century belief that a person's personality could be determined by the placement and size of the naturally-occurring bumps of the skull
> 
> Frontal and parietal are lobes of the brain, not the skull, though there is also a parietal bone in the skull. Any in-text clarification was going to be needlessly wordy - hooray for author's notes!
> 
> Lastly, the reason Barbara can identify which decade Fergolicious came from is because she was still in med school at the time, and she has very clear memories of this one girl always playing it loud enough on her headphones that Barbara could hear it clearly if she was nearby. I have no idea where Jim heard it, except there aren't many things that sound like Furgolator, so I went with it XD


	3. Friday

She forgot to set an early alarm for the next morning, so Jim had already left for school as usual by the time her normal alarm went off at nine. Frustrated by her inability to make him stay home and _rest_ , she was unfairly cranky with the receptionist at the clinic, which made her feel guilty, and that was just another thing to feel awful about that day.

Her lunch break was spent on the phone, trying to find an in-network orthopedist who was both accepting new patients and had experience with pubescent boys. Finally finding someone who met these two requirements (with only four minutes left before she had to get back to work), she booked the earliest possible appointment, which was in three weeks.

It would be on a day she had to work a double shift; if she couldn't rework her schedule, she'd have to ask if Jim felt alright going by himself, or if she should appoint a medical proxy. She didn't _think_ it would be necessary; it was unlikely there'd be any major medical decisions he'd be asked to make at the time. But maybe he'd want some help filling out the intake forms?

Hmm, those were pretty standard; she could give him a sheet with all the likely necessary information for him to copy out, like his medical history and the pertinent family history.  

There was also the matter of transportation to arrange, though if nothing else, he could always take the city bus...

Ah! Time was up – she'd have to find a dermatologist on her next break, but that was a lower priority, and she was satisfied with the progress she'd made so far. Honestly she didn't have high hopes that Jim's condition could be explained dermatologically, but maybe whoever they got might have seen something like it before, could point them in the right direction. Even a partial answer was more than what they had right now.

The rest of her day passed in a coffee-fueled haze of hyperfocus, putting all her attention on the task immediately in front of her with no brainpower to spare for any other thoughts. At long last her shift was over, and she practically bolted out the doors.

When Barbara got home and stepped through the front door, she could hear Jim and Toby arguing in the kitchen.

“ - keep deliberately ignoring this. There’s gotta be a connection, you see that, right?”

“What do you want me to say, Tobes? I haven’t had the chance to talk to Blinky yet.”

“If this turns out to be because you’re the first - ”

They both startled when she walked into the kitchen; evidently neither heard her come in through the door. “Good evening, boys, how wa- Jim, what happened?!” His entire face was bright pink, as though he'd been lying on a beach for hours.

“Sunburn.” Yes, that much was obvious.

“What were you doing out in the sun so long?” Like most redheads, Barbara burned very easily, a trait which Jim unfortunately shared. He was consequently usually very religious about applying sunscreen if he was going to be outside for more than half an hour.

“That's just from the ride home from school -  oh, was I not supposed to say that?” Toby rubbed his stomach where Jim had elbowed him.

“... A _fifteen minute_ bike ride… did _that?”_

Jim shrugged helplessly. Barbara felt an overwhelming need to sit down. But from the way Jim’s eyes were pleading at her, he did not want her having a freakout just yet. She understood. _Not in front of Toby._ There was a difference between confiding medical issues to a friend, and discussing a new symptom with one’s mother, and ne’er the twain should meet.

She pushed down her thoughts on improbable sunburns, and pasted on a smile. “Are you staying for dinner, Toby?”

“No, I should be heading home now, actually, Nana's expecting me. See ya later!”

His smile seemed just as forced as her own, but she could just be projecting. She made sure he took a plate of freshly-made macarons with him when he left (only a small fraction of the several dozen Jim had stress-baked that day when he got home from school).

Finally, she turned back to Jim. “Oh, sweetheart. How are you holding up?”

He grimaced. “It… looks worse than it feels.”

“Well, it looks pretty bad so that isn't saying much. You know where the aloe vera is?”

“Yes, and I already applied some.”

She sighed deeply, feeling all the tension of the day weigh heavily on her shoulders. “Jim… why didn't you call me right away?”

“... I didn't realize how bad it was, at first. Toby pointed it out, and then… Well, you were gonna be home later anyway, and it wasn't like there was anything you could do from where you were.”

“Jim, listen to me, this is important: until we know what this is, I want you to call me any time you experience a new symptom, the moment it happens. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Until we know what this is,” he affirmed, with suspicious specificity.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't you go trying to set up a loophole. You call me no matter what, got it? And don't spend any unnecessary time outside. Wear long sleeves, cover as much skin as possible, double up on sunscreen – in fact, I want you to use an umbrella any time you walk out that door.”

“What? I'll look ridiculous!”

“There's never been a case of late-onset xeroderma pigmentosum, so I doubt that's what you have, but do you want to find out the hard way if you're a thousand times more at-risk for skin cancer?”

“No.” he hung his head. She stared. She could clearly see the top of his scalp, and she felt a creeping horror run up her spine.

Where she had determined he had a loss of sensitivity – (she should call a spade a space, it was nerve damage of some sort) – all his hair had fallen out, leaving two neat, sunburned circles.

She gathered him in her arms, trying to be mindful of his skin but needing to hold him as close as possible. He responded in kind.

“We'll figure this out. It will be okay.”

“I know, Mom. I know.”

They stood like that for uncounted minutes, just breathing. Barbara felt the freakout she’d put off inching closer, and pulled away from Jim before she lost her composure. Her breathing was a little shaky; his eyes were suspiciously wet.

The truth – the real truth, which she could not express, not now, was that she was _terrified_. Whatever was going on with Jim had stopped being just a bone thing. New symptoms were popping up daily and she just couldn't keep up. Was it a virus? A dietary imbalance? (A deficiency in beta-carotene and vitamin E could maybe, _maybe_ explain his sudden sunburn, but not the rest of it, and Barbara knew the odds were much more strongly in favor of Jim’s symptoms being related than not).

Something was affecting him on a systemwide level, and she didn't know how to stop it. She didn't even know how to slow it down. _What next what next what next_ (There wasn't necessarily going to be a 'next,’ it could have already run its course, maybe this was as far as it went, but Barbara did not feel that naive).

“Can, can we sit down? Can we _talk?”_

Jim looked wary. She didn’t blame him. Taking a seat on the couch, she patted the cushion next to her. He hesitated, then gingerly say next to her.

She took a deep breath, focusing on her hands in her lap instead of on Jim, not wanting to overwhelm him when he looked ready to bolt. “It's time we acknowledge that we might be in this for the long haul. That there might not be a simple solution. Your appointment with the orthopedist is in three weeks; if he doesn't have an answer… Sometimes people bounce from specialist to specialist for a long time, years even, before they find any answers. Sunburn aside, you say you're not in any physical pain or discomfort right now?” He nodded. “That's good. That's really, really good. But that might change. And even if it doesn't, the waiting and uncertainty can take a huge mental toll, and we'll want to prepare for that eventuality.

“I need you to be honest about how you're feeling. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, or try to spare me from worry.” She gave a watery laugh. “That ship has sailed.” She thought about the letter she'd found tucked away in a cookbook, still unopened. Had she made the right decision, to not read it? She’d rather he told her face-to-face... but was that unfair, to prioritize her own preferences, when all he had done was try to reach out? Should she have read whatever it was he was trying to tell her? Should she confront him about it now?

No, now was not the time for that.

“Hey.” he took her hand in his. She looked up at him. “It’s okay to be afraid. Fear can be a source of strength, so long as you keep a clear head. Trying to not be afraid, when frightening things are happening, is just wasted energy that could be put to better use. This, whatever is going on with me, is scary. I’m scared too. We can be scared together, and we’ll be fine.”

This time, he was the one to pull her into an embrace. And she felt a little bit more at peace.

Finally, when the moment was right, she pulled away. “Whew, okay!” she clapped her hands, got to her feet. “Enough serious stuff. Let’s eat dinner in front of the tv - what movie do you feel like?”

He smiled. Oh, how she lived for his smile. “Let’s see what’s new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing much to say, here. oh! I did finally figure out when this story takes place (sort of): after Bittersweet Sixteen but before Recipe for Disaster. Still not sure whether it comes before or after Young Atlas - that won't become relevant unless I write a sequel. which... ~~might happen? I did not (and still don't) want to do a whole series rewrite, but I'm also really curious myself what happens next. But since I myself don't know, I can't promise anything.~~ I have plotted out an outline for if I were to hypothetically continue this. why. why did i do that
> 
> I'm actually low-balling the wait time for appointments. There was actually a study done in 2006 that looked at wait times for dermatology appointments in California, and the average was 38 days. I don't know if there's been a more recent study; certainly healthcare in America has undergone significant revision since then (I don't know how demand for dermatologists compares to orthopedists, but I'd expect they'd be comparable)
> 
> (oh, and if anyone guessed Tove Jansson as the source for Dr. Jansson's name, you're right! She created Mumintroll)


	4. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the updated tags!

The next day was Saturday, and she didn't have to work. She didn't particularly want to leave him home alone, but they were overdue for a grocery trip, so after extracting another promise from him to stay indoors and keep the curtains closed tight, she got into the station wagon and headed off.  
  


Jim was always the one to write the shopping lists, though she figured she'd pick up a couple of things that sat easily on an upset stomach in case Jim's appetite was still off, as it had been last night as well. Ginger ale, bananas, maybe some probiotic yogurt...  
  


This week's list was a little unusual, she noticed. Lightbulbs, pork chops, oysters, socks. She'd thought they had plenty of lightbulbs, just what did Jim think he was going to do with oysters, and why were socks even on the grocery list? If he needed socks he should have written it on the Supplies list.   
  


She bit her lip. How urgently did he need socks? She'd only planned to go to the grocery store and then head straight home, but maybe his feet were cold, maybe it was another symptom and he was having trouble thermoregulating. Maybe she should run out and… No, no. She forcefully refocused. He had socks. If he needed clean ones, she could run the laundry.   
  


All told, it took her about two hours to get all the shopping done. She sighed with relief when she finally pulled into the garage. Arms ladened with bags, she nearly called out to Jim to help, but checked herself just in time. Jim was meant to be taking things easy until they knew what was going on, and she could manage just fine on her own.  
  


“I’m home,” she called up the stairs as she passed. Weird that he hadn’t come to greet her like he usually did. Maybe he was feeling fatigued? 

  
He wasn’t watching tv in the living room, or cooking in the kitchen. Starting to feel a little concerned, she checked his room, but the door was open and he very clearly wasn’t in it.  
  


Once she’d gone through every room in the house, calling his name in increasingly frantic tones, it finally occurred to her to try his cell… but it rang through to voicemail. She stood there, in the front hallway, staring down at her phone in complete incomprehension. What… what next.   
  


Toby. Maybe he’d gone across the street to visit Toby, even though he’d promised he’d stay in the house while she was out.  
  


She found the Domzalskis in her contacts; Lorraine picked up on the third ring.  
  


_“Hellooo? Who is this?”_  
  


“It’s Barbara. Is Jim with Toby right now?”  
  


_“Hmn, it’s possible, I suppose. Toby-pie isn’t here right now; he left a couple of hours ago.”_  
  


“Did he say where he was going?”  
  


_“Mmmm, let me think…”_  
  


Barbara waited. And waited. The silence went on for so long she was about to check if the call got disconnected (or else prompt Lorraine again in case she had lost the thread of the conversation), but then she continued.  _“No, I don’t think he said where he was going. He left in a bit of a hurry.”_  
  


Barbara wished she was standing closer to a wall so she could thump her head against it.  
  


“Thank you, Lorraine. If either Toby or Jim return, will you tell them to call me?”  
  


__ “Okie dokie, Barbara. You have a nice day now.”  
  


Barbara stared at the lock screen of her phone for four and a half minutes (she watched the seconds tick by). She should put away the groceries, she realized numbly. There were things that belonged in the freezer that hopefully hadn’t thawed out. And the milk. The milk definitely needed to be put away.  
  


If Toby was also not home, the chances were good that Jim had not been abducted, and was in fact with Toby somewhere, doing whatever it was that teenage boys decided was more important than their personal health. Maybe they were graduating from B&E to actual burglary.  
  


Her hand clenched tight around her phone and she hastily put it away before she did something impulsive like throw it against the wall. Jim was going to be  _ so grounded _ when he got home.   
  


She went back out to the car to get another load of groceries, paused when she saw Jim’s bike leaning against the far wall of the garage. That hadn’t been there before, had it? But on the other hand, she had not noticed that it was missing, had she? Not  _ properly. _ If she’d realized as soon as she got home that his bike was gone, it would have clued her in right away that he wasn’t in the house (or, for that matter, wasn’t at Toby’s house). So it had probably been there all along.  
  


Nevertheless, the bike stood out to her now as something different, something changed.  
  


Disquieted, she hastened back into the kitchen, only to be brought up short by the sight of Jim, pouring himself a glass of water. She very nearly dropped her bags, just barely managing to readjust her grip; Jim turned around, surprised.  
  


“Jim! Where were you?!”  
  


“I was upstairs.”  
  


She crossed her arms. “I looked upstairs.”  
  


“Well, we must have just missed each other.” He didn’t make eye contact.  
  


“I’ve been home for over half an hour, Jim. You were not in the house.” His sunburn did look worse, but maybe that was just better lighting… No, no,  _ no _ . She  _ knew _ he’d been out of the house. “So,  _ where were you? _ ”  
  


“... I went over to Toby’s to play War Dudes; please don’t be mad. I was just feeling so cooped up, and it’s just across the street.”  
  


“No, you weren’t! Don't  _ lie  _ to me” she… she was shaking? She never shakes. Everything was just… spiraling out of her control. And the one thing they could do to mitigate this, the… the one thing that was in their control to stop this from getting worse - (that’s it! Just one thing! Nothing else they can do right now, except avoid the sun) - Jim just… cast that aside?! Didn’t he care? Didn’t he realize the severity of an unknown medical condition, doing who knew what? She’d thought he’d understood. She’d thought the two of them were on the same page. Instead, he just… stood there, telling bald-faced lies without hesitation.   
  


“Don’t - don’t  _ lie _ to me, Jim! Don’t you dare do that! Are you  _ trying _ to gaslight me? Do you know what that is?!”  
  


Barbara did. Thank God Jim was too young to really remember, though she sometimes found herself wondering just how much of an impact James’s behavior had had while he was still with them. The way he would make her doubt her own memory, her own perceptions of reality. They were honestly fortunate that he decided to walk out; with enough time and distance, Barbara had come to see it was better than having him there.   
  


She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “Don’t be like  _ him _ .” Jim froze, and Barbara choked, felt like her heart was trying to strangle her. “No, honey, no, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it like that.” She felt the tears that had been prickling at her eyes spill over, and once begun she could not stop. She began to cry in earnest, wet and gasping and ugly, huge sobs from deep within her, that touched the very deepest parts of herself. She stumbled into a chair, thumped her head down onto her folded arms, needing to ground herself.   
  


She sensed more than she heard Jim come up beside her. She expected him to put his arms around her, or apologize, or… something. Instead, he dropped something onto the table with a metallic  _ clumk! _ She lifted her head up just enough to see a strange, clockwork-looking circular device. She looked from the device to his face, momentarily startled out of her tears. He pulled at the hem of his sleeve in a nervous gesture, tried but did not quite succeed in meeting her eye.  
  


“I left the house to look for answers. I think I know what’s going on, but it’s a long story.”  
  


He took a deep breath, and began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are probably looking forward to horns, but that's going to take a while. While deer antlers can grow at an astounding quarter-inch a day, they are highly vascularized, i.e. full of blood vessels to bring resources to bear. Meanwhile, stone takes a lot longer to grow: stalactites typically grow at a rate of 0.00028–0.037 in/yr. The fastest growing ones (also the most fragile) can manage 1.5 inches in a year. Jim's horns, being made of living stone, will be somewhere in between antler growth and soda straw stalactites ;P
> 
> Not sure when the next update will be - this was the original ending, but I realized it was not satisfactory (I, personally, am not satisfied), so unlike previous chapters the epilogue has yet to be written


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this feel a bit more lighthearted than previous chapters, hopefully the shift in tone isn't too jarring. Maybe that's just the natural denouement of hurt/comfort stories? (the last line is… really not what I expected it to be, but here we are. Perhaps this could use another round of editing, but I was just too excited to have finished this!)
> 
> Song I listened to on loop while writing this chapter: “You’ll Be In My Heart” (Other looped songs when working on this fic include "Pompeii" and "How to Save a Life")
> 
> Credit to creativenicocorner on tumblr for the assist in coming up with a troll idiom!

“So let me see if I'm missing anything. Trolls… exist, and some are good and some are bad, and some of the bad ones can look like ordinary people and walk in the sunlight, which most trolls can't do. And the bad ones are trying to open a bridge – not sure how that's possible since you said it isn't a drawbridge - ” Jim opened his mouth but she cut him off. “No, don't say it, it's a magic bridge, I got it. And an open bridge would be bad because it would let the _really_ evil troll out.  


“And the reason you know all of this is because you got chosen by a magic amulet which gives you magic armor and a sword – ” she was getting worked up but she just couldn’t stop – “that I'm assuming is also magic, you didn't specify. And being the Trollfighter means _you_ have to be the one to risk your neck defending the good trolls from the bad ones. But since you're the first human to be chosen, you and Binky – who is your troll fighting trainer – think that a side effect of the amulet’s magic is that it's turning you into a troll, too.”  


“Okay, well, first of all, Troll _hunter,_ and Blinky, not Binky. And secondly, it might not be turning me into a troll _per se;_ it could just be making me a _bit_ more trollish.”  


Barbara sputtered incoherently.  


“You… you do believe me, right?”  


She did not. Of course she did not; his bones and skin were being fundamentally affected, was it too much to consider that it might have started to affect his brain as well? But she wasn't sure what the best response in this situation would be.  


Jim's face fell – evidently her silence was answer enough.  


“I can prove it to you.” He reached across for the amulet, but Barbara grabbed his arm to stop him.  


“Jim, honey, you _have_ to know how all that sounds. Now, I may not know what's really going on, but if you think that that… ‘amulet’ is the cause, then _that's a good reason to avoid it as much as possible!”_ She was half convinced the glow was probably due to radioactivity. As soon as possible she was going to run out and grab the nearest Geiger counter, once she figured out where exactly one might be found.  
 

“Mom, I literally can't avoid it.” He straightened, brightening. “In fact, that's a good not-traumatic way to prove magic exists. Here, let me have it; I promise I won't use it.”  
 

She hesitated, partly over the fact that she wasn't sure how a probably radioactive, decorative non-clock could be ‘used,’ but relinquished his arm.  
 

He confidently picked it up and let her to the kitchen. “Okay. Watch closely. Nothing up my sleeves.” He wiggled the fingers of his free hand, then dropped the amulet into the dishwasher and closed it.  
 

“Jim!” she exclaimed. If their plates and silverware got irradiated, they'd have to be replaced. He looked at her quizzically, clearly not understanding the reason for her distress. Because it never even _occurred_ to him that it might be radioactive, or else he never would have picked it up in the first place. (though, truth be told, he hadn’t been vomiting, or showing other signs of radiation poisoning, so maybe… But that wasn’t her field, what did she know?)  
 

“Just wait,” he told her; then, projecting towards the ceiling, “This is me, rejecting the calling.”  
 

Barbara only became more worried.  
 

He walked over to the microwave, opened it, and... pulled out the amulet. “Ta-daa.”  
 

Barbara was stunned. That was… But it wasn't _impossible._ She’d seen magicians pull off bigger stunts on tv.  
 

“Toby could have taught you that,” she countered obstinately, clinging to rationality because she could sense it slipping through her fingers.  
 

“Oh my god, Mom. No offense to Toby, but he's not that good at stage magic. Yet. He's gotten really good with coins in the past month – not the point.” He huffed out an exasperated breath, studying her face. “Alright. I got one more thing to try that isn't using the amulet, and then I'm going to have to call Draal. I’d, uh, rather not do that since the natural response to seeing a troll for the first time is to back away screaming, and he's a friend. But if this doesn't work, we're going to have to do things the hard way.”  
 

From his messenger bag resting on the banister, he dug out a wooden mask, and held it out for her to inspect. She took it warily.  
 

“It's called a glamor mask. Blinky gave it to me so that I can keep looking normal even if I do end up growing horns, which, um, seems likely.”  
 

The mask was solid wood, with very few embellishments. She couldn't place it to a particular region or era, but it looked very old. She had no idea how it was meant to make Jim look ‘normal even with horns,’ unless the idea was that it would distract from his horns? Or else people might think the horns were part of the mask instead of his head?... She couldn't believe she was contemplating Jim with horns.  
 

He held out a hand, and she handed it back. He took a deep breath. “Okay, so, I've actually only done this once before; there's a bit of a mental trick to it so if it doesn't work the first time just bear with me.”  
 

Slowly, he raised the mask to his face, and there was a flash of green light.  
 

Barbara blinked. Then blinked again. The mask had vanished, and she knew this was well beyond whatever sleight-of-hand Jim might have picked up from Toby. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone.  
 

No, more than that. Jim's sunburn was gone. And his jaw looked normal again. That… that wasn't _possible._ Spots started forming on the edges of her vision and she realized she was hyperventilating.  
 

She stumbled back until she reached the couch, collapsed into it, rested her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, and tried to get her breathing under control.  
 

Jim sat down next to her, rubbing comforting circles on her back. “Aww man, I guess the easy way isn't as easy as I thought. Still beats screaming until you pass out, though. That was no fun.”  
 

Somewhere, she found the wherewithal to give him a sharp look from between her fingers, because if he'd ever lost consciousness that was very serious and he should have told her right away…!  
 

Jim only chuckled. “I'm… I'm actually really glad I told you. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner; I should have.”  
 

“All this time… I can’t believe…” She grabbed his hand in hers, and he winced. Still sunburned, right (at least, she hoped that was the reason). She pulled her hand back, worried her fingers together in her lap.  “Why, though? Why are you this… Trollhunter? Can’t you ask someone else to do it?” She’d given him her full attention, earlier, so even though she hadn’t believed a word of what he’d said, she still remembered it. She remembered what he’d said, about training and fighting. The fact that the position came with its very own sword spoke volumes about what his expected role was to be.  
 

“The Amulet _chose_ me; I showed you, it’s bonded to me.”  
 

“That’s not what I mean. Can’t it be bonded to someone else? It’s magic, there’s got to be a way to do that.”  
 

“There, there really isn’t.”  
 

His shoulder brushed against hers. They sat in silence, Barbara trying to process… _everything_. The fact that trolls existed. The fact that her son was being turned into one (or partly turned into one) by a magic amulet. The fact that he’d been conscripted to fight in a war and he was only _sixteen.  
_  

She understood violence. She saw the aftermath, cruelties humans perpetrated against other humans. She understood military service: both her brother and her father were Army veterans, the latter having served two tours in Vietnam. She understood that a sixteen-year-old was a _child_ , and had no business knowing either violence or war.  
 

As a doctor, she’d taken the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm. But she also had an orange belt in krav maga. She knew how far a wrist could be bent before it would snap. Knew the pressure points and weaknesses of the human body, and was prepared to apply that knowledge in defense of herself or her son, if the need ever arose. She’d given Jim the option to take karate classes if he wanted, but he’d been more interested in Little League – she had no objection to Jim training in self-defense. Not only was it a potentially life-saving skill, but it taught focus and mental discipline.  
 

Trollhunting was not that. Trollhunting involved swords and armor, and active pursuit by a terrible enemy who _ate people._ And not only that, but it was going to rob him of his humanity in the process, had already begun to do so, though she couldn’t see all the connections, not yet.  
 

Horns, Jim had mentioned. Those must be the circle forming at the top of his skull. What else?  
 

“What else, what?” Jim asked.  
 

Oh, she’d spoken aloud. “What else, besides horns, are you expecting?”  
 

“Oh. The truth is, we really don’t know. There's never been a human Trollhunter before, so this is all uncharted territory.” There was a flash of green light, and the mask fell off his face. “Gah!” Meeting her startled look, he explained. “That’s part of the mental trick; you have to not think about the fact that you’re wearing the mask while you’re wearing it. It’s really hard to deliberately not think about something, but supposedly it gets easier with practice.” He set the mask aside.  
 

Barbara’s attention was once again drawn to his harsh sunburn, his severe underbite – why an underbite? Why sunburn?  
 

“But, what are trolls like? What, what are the possibilities?”  
 

He took his time formulating his reply, a troubled wrinkle in his brow. “You know what, there’s someone you should really meet. Why don’t I go get Draal?”  
 

Right. There was a troll. In her basement. That had been living in her basement for over a month.  
 

She put her head back down and took deep breaths.  
 

“... But… that can wait?” Jim offered, clearly concerned about her.  
 

“No, no.” She sat back up, straightening her glasses. “I'm good.”  
 

“If you're sure.” He still looked uncertain, but he got up from the couch and went to the basement.  
 

She couldn't hear anything after that, though presumably he was explaining things. To the troll. In her basement. _Why…?_ Jim hadn't explained that part very well.  
 

How long did it take to fill him in? It felt like it was taking a really long time. Finally, she heard loud footsteps on the stairs, as though an elephant was deliberately stomping its way up wearing clogs.  
 

She stood up to greet their guest and –  
 

Blue. Big.  
 

Big and blue. _Horns.  
_  

She yelped and jerked backwards, her knees hit the couch and she tumbled to an ungraceful seat with much flailing of limbs.  
 

The creature – the _troll_ – shifted his weight awkwardly, raised one massive hand to scratch behind his head in discomfort. It was a very human gesture, and it helped Barbara find her footing.  
 

Jim facepalmed. “This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid with the whole gradual lead-up.” He was standing right next to the troll, and the top of his head barely made it to the troll’s blue chin.  
 

He was a lot bluer than she had expected.  
 

“Mom, this is my friend, Draal. Draal, this is my mom.”  


“It is my honour to finally meet you, Bar-bu-ra.” He clenched one fist to his chest and bowed over it.  
 

“It's. Um. A pleasure to meet you too… Drawl. Draal?” She mimicked the unfamiliar syllable as best she could, giving him a small bow in return.  “Can I, can I get you something?” She wasn’t sure any cup in the house would survive that massive fist, but she knew what good manners were.  
 

Draal looked to Jim helplessly.  


“She's offering refreshments. You know, something to drink. It's something humans do to be polite to guests.”  
 

“Does she have any glug?”  
 

“No, no glug,” Jim answered for her.  
 

The expression on Draal’s face was immediately recognizable; apparently _'I could_ really _use a drink right now’_ was a universal sentiment. Barbara sympathized.  
 

“Don't worry, I'll handle the snacks. You guys sit down, get comfortable.” Jim shooed them both away.  
 

Draal sat down exactly where he was with a floor-shaking thump. Barbara sat back down on the couch with considerably more grace than she had previously. They stared at each other for a moment, before Draal broke eye contact and studiously looked at anything other than her. For the first time she wondered how old he was, in troll years. He suddenly seemed very young.  


When Jim came back he gave her a glass and a whole pitcher of water, as well as a banana. He was worried about her blood sugar, probably, after the stress and the shock. Draal watched her peel it with interest while Jim went to fetch more snacks, and then Jim returned with the bag they kept recycling in. Draal picked up an empty milk carton, sniffed it, and then fit the whole thing into his mouth and started chewing.  
 

Barbara stared. “Is this why we haven't been getting as much back from bottle deposits lately?”  
 

“What is a ‘bottle deposit?’” Draal asked, selecting an empty soup can and polishing it off as well.  
 

Jim gestured vaguely. “It's where you exchange certain kinds of bottles and cans for money.” Draal’s blank stare persisted. “Oh, right, you guys don't use currency. Um… you know what, I don't know how to explain capitalism right now.”  
 

“Money is something with agreed-upon value that makes bartering more straightforward,” Barbara put in.  
 

Draal brightened, and gave her a toothy grin. A very, very toothy grin. That was a lot of teeth. “My thanks, Bar-bu-ra, I understand.”  
 

“Oh, well, you’re welcome. Here, I think I have some quarters in my pocket.” She pulled out a handful of loose change to show him.  
 

He picked up one of the quarters with surprising gentleness (Barbara was in awe that he could manage it at all with the relative size of his fingers.) He sniffed it once, then popped it into his mouth as well. She sighed.  
 

Draal swallowed, then gave his verdict. “It is not as satisfying. I believe these 'bottle deposits’ to be an inferior trade.”  
 

“Yes, well, the house always wins,” she said without thinking, then slapped a hand to her forehead.  
 

“How can a house be victorious? It –  ”  
 

“No, no, I'm not explaining casinos. Moving on!”  
 

But Draal was tapping his chin thoughtfully. “There is a casino in TrollMarket.”  (“There is?” Jim marveled) “I believe I understand your meaning. We have an equivalent expression. Translated, it would be: ‘The sun always rises.’”  
 

She squinted in uncertainty, but Jim nodded along. “No, that checks out.” To Barbara, he added in an undertone, _“Memento mori.”  
_  

Well, that wasn't _quite_ the same sentiment, but she was more than happy to move away from comparative linguistics.  
 

“So… how has it been, living in our basement?”  
 

“It has been adequate.” She waited, but he did not elaborate.  
 

“And, how do you know my son?”  
 

“My father, Kanjigar, was the previous Trollhunter. When he was felled, I expected to take up the mantel. Instead, the young fleshbag was chosen, so I – “  
 

“Decided to help train me!” Jim cut across loudly, looking panicked.  
 

“Yes, to repay the debt I owe you, sparing my life when we – ”  
 

“GAAHHHHHH!” Jim lunged forward and forcibly clapped his whole arm across Draal’s mouth.  
 

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “Okay, what’s really going on?”  
 

Jim shifted guiltily. Draal looked uncertain, swinging his attention back and forth between the two of them.  
 

Barbara let the silence stretch; Jim cracked first, speaking in a rush, “We used to be rivals but now we’re friends, and Draal has saved _my_ life, too, so it’s not really about a life-debt anymore, and he protects the house when I’m not home and is a good guy.”  


She knew that wasn’t the whole story, but it didn’t seem worth it to argue. Though she didn’t care for the term ‘fleshbag,’ and might yet call him out on it.  
 

But that brought her attention back to the purpose of the meeting (besides the common courtesy of knowing who was sleeping under her roof). What were trolls made of, if not flesh and blood? Draal looked like he was made of rocks and crystals, but was that _really_ what trolls were?  
 

…what Jim might be turning into?  
 

“So, Draal. What's it like being a troll?”  
 

“Um.”  
 

“Mom, don't _interrogate_ him. If you want to get philosophical, you should talk to Blinky.” His brow furrowed, giving it some thought. “Actually, you guys would probably get along like a house on fire.”  
 

“I do not understand. If the house is on fire, how can it always win?”  
 

Jim facepalmed. “It’s another idiom. It means they’d get along really well.”  
 

“Your human idioms are ridiculous, and contradictory.”  
 

“Now hold on, Blinky once told me to ‘take that allabogdanite somewhere else and chew it,’ but another time he said that ‘wet allabogdanite leads nowhere good’.”  
 

“What is your point?”  
 

Jim sighed, shook his head. He sat back down next to Barbara, reaching over to pick up her banana peel. Which he then started chewing on.  
 

“Ah! Jim! Er…!” she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what _he_ was doing…!  
 

He looked over at her, then, realizing what he was eating, startled violently. “Gah!” The banana peel fell limply from his mouth and slapped onto the floor.  
 

“You should let him eat it. He hardly has any teeth, it won’t hurt him to eat whelp food.” Draal picked it up and tried to hand it to Jim, but he was too freaked out and jerked away.  
 

Barbara was feeling pretty freaked herself. Everything was just… too much.  
 

“Draal. It was very nice to meet you. Can you, can you go now? I mean, give us a moment? Or…” Her breath hitched, the feeling of being overwhelmed pressing closer.  
 

“As you wish, Bar-bu-ra.” he nodded regally. “Be well, Trollhunter – and tell me exactly what Blinkous said, later.”  
 

Jim, who was going cross-eyed trying to stare at his own tongue, looked up. “Uh, yeah. Uh, I’ll catch you up later.”  
 

Draal carefully placed the banana peel on the coffee table in front of them before he turned to leave. Jim stared at it furiously. He looked to be on the verge of tears.  
 

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, held his cheek in her hand. He burrowed his face against her shoulder, snuffling. “I don’t want to be a troll.”  
 

Gathering him close, she made soothing nonsense sounds, the sorts she once made when he was a fussy baby unable to fall asleep, or when he was six and had a tummy ache, or any other time he was in her arms and shaking as he was now. She could barely wrap her head around the existence of magic and trolls, but she knew how to comfort and support her son.  
 

“I said we were gonna see this through together, and that hasn’t changed, you hear me? Whatever happens, no matter what, I will always love you, and protect you, and be there for you. Things happen sometimes, completely outside of our control, and we just have to find  ways to keep moving forward.”  
 

His arms clenched tight around her. “Thanks, Mom. Love you too.” With one last, loud sniff, he pulled away. She kept her hands resting on his shoulders.  
 

“As your doctor, I have to ask: are you feeling hungry?”  
 

He nodded miserably.  
 

“You haven’t been eating much lately,” she observed neutrally. Jim gave a small mewl of agreement. “Is it that your stomach feels queasy all the time, or is it that the foods you have tried to eat upset your stomach?”  
 

“Um.” he rubbed his tears away with the heel of his hand. “More like the second. I feel hungry, but food doesn’t look appealing. It doesn’t make me feel sick, exactly. It just… it’s hard to describe.”  
 

Barbara really, really didn’t want to say what she had to say next. “Maybe… human food doesn’t look appealing?”  
 

Oh, he looked so _betrayed_ that she’d ask that, say it out loud.  
 

“Sweetheart, I’d like you to try eating this peel. It’s not inedible to humans – there was that food craze last year, people were convinced it was good for them, though there wasn’t much science behind the claim...” Realizing she was hurting her own argument, she switched tracks, “The important thing is that you are getting enough to eat. Right now, that might mean trusting your body to make its own decisions about what it needs.” She nudged the peel towards him.  
 

He picked it up warily, glancing between it and her face, as though hoping she’d change her mind and stop him at any moment. She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jim, I’m not going to _force_ you to do something you don’t want to, you don’t _have_ to eat it.”  
 

“No, it… smells good.” He took the smallest bite possible, smaller than a postage stamp – but, when he found that to his liking, his next bite was considerably larger, and in less than two minutes he’d finished the whole thing.  
 

“Good?”  
 

“Yeah, not, not bad.” He looked deeply uncomfortable with the admission.  
 

“Okay.” she took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay. We’ll make a list. ‘Foods Jim Finds Appealing.’” She glanced at the bag of recycling, still lying in the living room, and reconsidered the name. “‘Things Jim Likes to Eat.’ How soon can I talk to Blinky face-to-face?”  
 

“Uh, tonight, probably. After sundown, I can go down to Trollmarket and bring him here. Or we can send Aaarrrgghh down to fetch him, that might be easier. Oh man, Toby! I gotta fill him in! ”  
 

She gave him what was probably a pretty watery smile. “Go on, kiddo. Go talk to your friend.”  
 

“Thanks, Mom!” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then dashed towards the door.  
 

“Umbrella!” she called out after him, but he was already gone. She sighed. _Teenagers_.  
 

… Dammit, she’d left the milk out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Jim and Blinky are wrong about the Amulet, but they have no way of knowing that just yet ;)
> 
> (and to clarify, when Jim says 'fill him in,' he means on the fact that he's come clean to him mom, and how that went; Toby was with him in Trollmarket when he went to talk to Blinky, so he doesn't need any updating there)
> 
> Aaannnd that's a wrap! I am confident enough now that there will be more to this verse that I'm marking it as part of a series. There's still so much that needs to be addressed! (e.g. correcting their misunderstanding, and then some)
> 
> *sigh* I'm going to miss the way that Barbara calls him "Mr. Blinky," but Jim's called him just Blinky throughout this conversation, and that's what she's going to think of him as.


End file.
